Then toward the frosted window.
The tracks outside had almost disappeared beneath the fresh snow, but he had seen enough.
A horse had come to the cabin.
Recently.
And whoever had ridden it had approached close enough to interfere with the chimney.
Clara's voice barely rose above the storm.
“Henry.”
He looked down immediately.
She was still frighteningly pale.
The woman who had somehow forced her enormous body through knee-deep snow and held his ladder against a Montana blizzard now looked impossibly fragile beneath the buffalo hides.
He hated the sight.
Her wet auburn hair clung to her cheeks. Her lips had regained a little color, but not enough.
“What?”
“Don't go outside.”
He did not answer.
She knew him well enough already.
“Henry.”
He reached for the shotgun leaning against the wall.
Her fingers caught his sleeve.
Weakly.
Still enough to stop him.
“Somebody may still be out there.”
“That's why I need to look.”
“No.”
“I can't sit here waiting.”
“You can if walking through that door gets you killed.”
His jaw tightened.
“Someone tried to kill us.”
“I know.”
“They blocked the chimney.”
“I know.”
“They may have burned the north barn too.”
“I know.”
“And you want me to sit beside the stove?”
Clara looked directly into his eyes.
“Yes.”
That answer stopped him more effectively than any argument.
Henry stared at her.
She pulled his sleeve until he reluctantly lowered himself beside her.
“Listen to yourself,” she whispered. “Five minutes ago you thought I was dying because I went outside when you told me not to.”
“That was different.”
“Why?”
“Because—”
He stopped.
She waited.
Because he had been terrified.
Because seeing her collapse had torn something open inside him.
Because the thought of returning from the roof to an empty cabin had suddenly been worse than falling.
He looked away.
Clara understood without hearing the words.
“Exactly,” she said.
Henry frowned.
“I didn't say anything.”
“You didn't need to.”
Outside, something scraped along the wall.
Both froze.
Henry reached for the shotgun again.
This time Clara did not stop him.
The sound came again.
Not footsteps.
Something heavier.
Wood dragging.
Henry moved quietly to the side of the window and wiped a narrow line through the frost.
Nothing.
White darkness.
He waited.
Another scrape.
Then a crash.
The sound came from the woodshed.
Henry raised the shotgun.
Clara whispered, “Can you see?”
“No.”
The wind shifted.
For half a second the snow thinned.
A shadow moved behind the shed.
Human.
Henry's breathing changed.
He stepped toward the door.
Clara grabbed the edge of the buffalo hide and tried to push herself upright.
He turned.
“What are you doing?”
“Coming with you.”
“No.”
“Then neither of us goes.”
“Clara.”